


Definitely Not Appropriate

by luckysilverbell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckysilverbell/pseuds/luckysilverbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this prompt on the Les Mis Kink Meme:</p><p>Les amis are high school teachers and besties with each other, and they purposely troll students and act unprofessional with each other.<br/>They get together every other day at Eponine's family's cafe to grade papers and gossip about students. They would barge into each other's classrooms and steal each other's coffee and staplers.<br/>The poor principal, Javert, is always cleaning up and getting tired of their shit.<br/>The students on the other hand, love them, because they make classes fun and can actually learn something from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teacher's Lounge

“Four pipes, one dick, and two bongs.”

Enjolras looked up from his towering stack of paper to stare at Grantaire in disbelief. “Come again?” he said, sure he’d heard wrong.

“It’s a new record,” Grantaire explained, taking the seat opposite Enjolras. “Never fails. Every semester, some chucklefuck in my Ceramics class will make a pipe, a dick, or a bong. This time, we have all three.”

“Um.” Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Congratulations?”

Grantaire laughed, grabbing one of the donuts out of the box Cosette had been kind enough to bring in. “I don’t know whether to be proud or offended,” he said. “I mean, you should see the craftsmanship on some of them. The attention to detail, I swear.” Then he added, “Though they really must think I’m an idiot. Would you believe one of them tried to pass the bong off as a vase?”

Frowning, Enjolras tapped his pen against the edge of the table, not even bothering to look up from the quiz he was grading. “Why does that scenario sound oh-so-familiar?” he deadpanned.

“Exactly what I told those little shitheads,” Grantaire said through a mouthful of donut. “Been there, done that. At least I was smart enough to make mine actually _look_ like a vase.”

After a brief moment of silence, Enjolras finally looked up. “Just going out on a limb here,” he began, “but was Patrick Lewton one of your miscreant sculptors?”

Grantaire didn’t even try to conceal his surprise. “Yeah, he made a pretty badass pipe. How’d you know?”

Wordlessly, Enjolras passed him the quiz he’d been grading. The quiz wasn’t a lengthy one, and due to its brevity, Grantaire could only assume the class had recently began a new unit. Enjolras wasn’t known for easy assignments, after all.

All the answers were written in a hasty, untidy scrawl that Grantaire would have been able to recognize as Patrick’s, even without the name at the top. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. “There’s no way,” he muttered in disbelief, reading through the answers aloud. “ _I don’t know, Who cares?, Your mom, Capitalist pig-dogs…_ ” He looked back up at Enjolras. “Is this the same Patrick Lewton who got in a fistfight with the Young Republicans in the cafeteria over foreign policy last month?”

“That’s the one,” Enjolras replied, taking the quiz back and stuffing it back into a manila folder. “I don’t understand. Last quarter, his grades were perfect. He was making arguments that _I_ hadn’t even considered! His essay on international economic systems was the best I’ve ever read. And now, this.” He gestured at the folder.

“Did you talk to Valjean about it?” Grantaire asked. “I mean, kid’s always been a little shit in my class. But _yours_? Something’s gotta be up with him.”

Enjolras shook his head as he pulled out the next stack of papers. “I want to talk with Patrick myself before getting the counselors involved,” he said. “But I’ll let you know what happens.”

“You’d better,” Grantaire replied, grinning as he got back to his feet. “I’d better get going. Bell’s about to ring, I think.”

“Have fun,” Enjolras said, with a dismissive wave. “Oh, and Grantaire?” he added suddenly, before the other man could leave the room. “Next time you paint political cartoons on my whiteboard, I’m filling your kiln with dog shit.”

“That could have been anyone!” Grantaire protested with a grin. “But I’ll be sure to let the culprit know.”


	2. Team Sports

Éponine was not having a very good day. This was becoming a common occurrence, ever since the old lady living above her had started bringing home her new boyfriend. Not that she had anything against love and its many incarnations, but the walls were thin, and there were only so many times she could tolerate hearing talk of hip replacements, bad knees, dentures and Viagra in between the creaking of bedsprings at two in the morning before she went completely insane.

And her students, bless their souls, were starting to notice.

“Johnson, Mitton, get off the floor! Rosenoff, if I see you wearing heels in my gym _one more time,_ I’m making you run laps in them! No, McNutt, you are not having menstrual cramps; you don’t have a uterus. Get in line! _Now!_ ”

Most students would have moaned and groaned at being shouted at this early in the morning. In all honesty, most of them had come to regret signing up for Team Sports at 7:30 in the morning, but while they all realized their teacher was absolutely crazy after the first week, that didn’t stop them from having a little too much fun in her class.

“Miss Thénardier?” one student asked hesitantly, raising her hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Éponine snapped as she wheeled a cart of volleyballs into the center of the room.

“Is Mr. Pontmercy being a dick again?” another piped up. “Because I know what kind of car he drives, and the janitor always leaves the toilet paper closet unlocked.”

Éponine hesitated, mouth hanging open slightly. “This has nothing to do with Mr. Pontmercy,” she said finally.

“That’s a first,” someone muttered.

“I heard that, McNutt!” she snapped. “And I’m sorry for shouting at all of you. My neighbor has been making a lot of noise, and it’s keeping me up.”

“Isn’t Mr. Pontmercy your neighbor, though?”

Éponine shook her head. “Not him. The little old lady upstairs has a boyfriend, and they sound just like Gene’s keyboard sound effects on Bob’s Burgers.” This elicited a few giggles from the class, while the rest just looked confused. “Anyways, as you probably guessed, we’re going to be playing volleyball this week. Has anyone ever played befor—”

“Éponine!!”

Éponine winced as Marius and Courfeyrac burst through the double doors, faces flushed and looking like they’d sprinted the entire length of the school. “I’m in the middle of class, you ass clowns!” she shouted as they both stated talking at once.

“It’s gym, Éponine!” Marius said impatiently. “This is more important!”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac agreed. “It’s not like they’re actually learning anything.”

This statement resulted in a vicious outcry from the students, who started booing enthusiastically. “It’s not like they learn anything in Health with _you!_ ” Éponine countered. “Or would you care to explain why McNutt here tried to get out of class by saying he was on his period? He’s in _your_ class, isn’t he?”

“Damnit, Frank,” Courfeyrac hissed, and the boy actually had the decency to look abashed.

“I thought it would work.”

Marius chose this moment to interrupt before the other two teachers could continue their verbal sparring match. “Look, ‘Ponine, we wouldn’t interrupt if this wasn’t important!”

“Yes, you _would!_ ” Éponine replied with a sharp laugh. “Or did you forget the time you both ran in here crying after last month’s Game of Thrones?” Courfeyrac opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. “Or the time _you_ ,” she jammed a finger into Marius’ chest, “interrupted the beep test to ask me for Cosette’s number?”

“He’s _blushing!_ ” laughed one of the girls.

“Éponine, this is really important!” Courfeyrac whined.

“Is the school burning down?”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Uh, no…”

“Did Dancing with the Stars get cancelled?”

“ _No,_ Éponine, would you—”

“Did Enjolras and Grantaire finally hook up?” There was a bout of cheers and wolf-whistles from the students, and Courfeyrac grinned.

“Not yet, but that’s what it’s about.”

Éponine’s grin stretched practically ear-to-ear as the cheering from her class increased in volume. “I’ll be seeing you two at lunch, then,” she said. “If you leave anything out, I know where you both live.”

Courfeyrac gave Marius a playful punch on his shoulder. “Let’s go find Bahorel and Feuilly!”

“And Combeferre?”

“Dude, _no_ , he’ll tell Enjolras everything!”

Éponine brought her whistle to her lips and _blew._ Her students had grown accustomed to the ear-splitting sound during the semester, but the two overgrown children posing as teachers were not, which Courfeyrac proved by yelping and grabbing his ears. “ _Jesus,_ Éponine!” he exclaimed.

“You two,” she said. “Out. Go bother someone who isn’t teaching!”

Marius grabbed Courfeyrac’s arm and made a beeline for the door, the latter’s irritated grumbling gradually fading as the door slammed shut behind them.

“Okay, everyone, change of plans!” she announced.

“Are they really dating?” one of the girls interrupted eagerly.

Éponine shook her head. “Enjolras and Grantaire?” she asked. “God, who the fuck knows? Let’s go, everyone. It’s a nice day, the sun is shining, and we’re going to practice spiking a goddamn volleyball.”

The students looked momentarily confused. “But… didn’t the Chemistry class burn the outside net down last year?”

The smirk that crossed Éponine’s face was positively Satanic. “Who needs a net when we have Courfeyrac’s car?” she said simply. “Call _my_ class unimportant, will he? We’ll see about that!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering about the Bob's Burgers reference, here's the clip: https://youtu.be/6WLuoDZUf0c?t=110


	3. Philosophy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads up here: all of the philosophical banter, subjects, and references to Machiavelli and Rousseau are based on 20 minutes of Wikipedia research. I'm terrible at Philosophy, and actually dropped the class in college less than three weeks in. So if something's really wrong in this chapter, don't worry. I know.

At the beginning of the semester, Combeferre had been surprised to find all his Philosophy classes not only filled, but with a substantially-sized waiting list. Previous years had only seen him with classes of around ten, and he was still trying to get over the shock of having thirty-two sets of eyes staring back at him every day. He had briefly allowed himself to believe that there was a rising interest in the subject amongst the student body, but after three days and at least a hundred paragraphs stating that ‘Play-Doh’ was in love with his own mother, he quickly realized that wasn’t the case.

In actuality, it turned out that some of his assignments had rang so favorably with his earlier classes that other students’ curiosity had been piqued. Essay assignments like “Can Nietzsche’s rejection of traditional morality justify Bart Simpson’s bad behavior?” and the entire unit dedicated to Star Trek and Religious Philosophy were a hit. The class’s online message board was easily the most popular sub-page of the school’s website, and was frequented not only by his students, but a large chunk of the student population in general.

Ever since he’d began a unit examining traditional gender roles in popular TV series, he’d grown accustomed to several sit-ins from members of both the Gay-Straight Alliance and the Women’s Club, in addition to his own students. And while he was fairly certain that having this many people in one classroom was a blatant fire code violation, he was so excited at the prospect of teaching so many young souls that he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The students weren’t the only ones periodically dropping in for his lectures, however. Jehan, Enjolras and, occasionally, Grantaire were a common sight in his class whenever their schedules and workloads permitted it.

It was on one of these busier days, when all the desks were filled and the aisles were filled with sit-ins seated on the floor, that the topic of politics was mentioned. As a rule, Combeferre did not like to stick to a strict rubric, and preferred to let the conversation flow in whatever direction it took. In his experience, a conversation could never get too off-topic in philosophy. But if ever he would have redirected a conversation, it would have been this one.

Enjolras, who had been quietly seated at Combeferre’s desk for the past half-hour, seemed to perk up immediately as the conversation shifted to his area of expertise. “It’s like what Machiavelli believed,” one girl, Anna, was saying, “everything in peoples’ lives is contingent on circumstance and condition. And the entire world of politics was designed to engage in manipulation of that fact.”

“You’re forgetting that Machiavelli saw human nature as duplicitous,” Enjolras added suddenly, and Combeferre winced. “As he said, ‘In time of adversity, when a state is in need of its citizens, there are few to be found.’”

“And what part of that’s wrong?” Anna countered. “How many rebellions and revolutions failed because the people weren’t willing to risk what they already had?”

“The blame can’t be placed entirely on the people,” Enjolras said. “‘Man is born free, and he is everywhere in chains.’ People are corrupted by society, so why blame the people?”

“Enjolras…” Combeferre said warningly.

Anna scoffed. “Rousseau?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “He thought people were inherently good, but they really aren’t. Besides, Rousseau talks about how living for the common good promotes liberty and equality. What part of the common good was he living for when he abandoned all five of his kids?”

Enjolras’ eye twitched as he replied, “If Rousseau abandoning his children upsets you, how are you siding with Machiavelli after he advised Cesare Borgia to capture Caterina Sforza under a flag of truce, strip her naked and have her publicly raped and executed after being paraded around in a cage?”

“Enjolras!” Several of the students flinched, never having heard their teacher so much as raise his voice, let alone shout. Whatever Combeferre was going to say was cut off as the bell sounded, and the students reluctantly began gathering their books. “I cannot _believe_ you,” he hissed to the blond, who was absently bending one of the paperclips he’d found on the desk.

“Sorry,” Enjolras muttered. “I just got a bit… carried away, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Combeferre replied sarcastically. “A bit.”

“I promise I’ll keep my opinions to myself from now on.”

Combeferre sighed. “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Honestly, I can see why they don’t let you run the Debate Te—where are you going?”

Enjolras had spotted the girl he’d been arguing with, and was out of his seat before Combeferre could finish his sentence. “I hope you’re planning on registering for Politics and Government in the spring,” he said simply.

Anna looked confused for a moment. “No,” she said. “I’m only a Sophomore. I thought students couldn’t take that class until Junior year.”

“I’ll make an exception,” Enjolras said simply. “Also, Pontmercy runs the Debate Team. You might want to check that out.”

Anna beamed. “I will! Thank you!” And with a noticeable spring in her step, she hurried out the door to join her friends.

“I’m not letting you back in here if you keep stealing my students, Enjolras,” Combeferre grumbled.


	4. AP Chemistry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I know we're all adults here, but in the event that any non-adults are reading, PLEASE, for the love of god, do not attempt the experiment depicted in this story outside a classroom with appropriate instructor supervision. Hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide are some seriously rough chemicals that can cause permanent injury or death when used incorrectly. I personally have not performed this experiment before (at least, not on this scale), and am in no way a professional when it comes to this shit. I'm a lowly student. So if you're going to be stupid and try this anyways, well, can't say I didn't warn you. ~~pleasedon'tdoitpleasedon'tdoitpleasedon'tdoit~~

Joly was not happy. Not in the slightest. Budget cuts were an unfortunate part of teaching in the public school system, and while the Science department hardly bore the brunt of the school’s financial difficulties (as Grantaire often pointed out on behalf of the entire Fine Arts department), Joly couldn’t help his irritation every time the materials he’d specially requested for some of his more exciting labs were conveniently “outside the scope of the budget”. He wasn’t one to point out conspiracies at every turn, but this particular instance was so obvious that some of his more paranoid coworkers would likely be able to point in out in their sleep.

They would also be quick to point out some of the frankly dangerous results several of his labs had produced.

To be fair, Joly was not _purposely_ destructive. True, he had a tendency to get a bit carried away during his Chemistry classes, but the students loved it, and Joly loved his students.

But in the school board’s eyes, this in no way excused lighting Principal Javert’s car on fire the previous year, so Joly could understand why his access to the more volatile chemicals had been cut. He understood, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

Fortunately, a certain teacher by the name of Bahorel had magical ways of obtaining every substance he could ever want.

This particular experiment really had no relevance to the current unit, but on the first day of class, he’d promised his students that if the whole class managed to pull a 90% average or better on any of the unit tests, he would light the classroom on fire.

They did. And Joly was not one to break his promises.

The day after the test results were announced, his classroom was packed. It was rare for him to enter a full classroom before the bell rang, let alone a classroom filled past capacity with what appeared to be members of every science class he taught.

“Okay,” he sighed, automatically reaching for the enormous bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk. “Show of hands, how many of you _aren’t_ in AP Chemistry?” About half the hands went up. “And how many of you aren’t in _this_ AP Chemistry class?” Six more hands went up, and Joly shook his head. “I hate to do this, I really do, but everyone who has their hand up is going to have to leave.”

There were loud groans of protest, and Joly held up his hands. “This isn’t a negotiation!” he said loudly. “You all know the deal. If the rest of you can average a 90% on your tests, we’ll blow shit up in your class too. But until then, I suggest you all go study.”

A considerable amount of grumbling still filled the classroom, but eventually the guests filtered out of the room, leaving Joly with his usual group of noticeably eager teenagers. “Are we really lighting the classroom on fire today, teach?” one of them asked, balanced quite literally on the edge of his seat.

Joly shook his head. “First thing, _we_ will not be lighting the classroom on fire. _I_ will be performing the experiment, because the last thing I need is half my class in the emergency room.” The students seemed to find this exceedingly entertaining, and he had to wait a few moments before continuing. “And as for lighting the classroom on fire, due to… ah… _executive meddling,_ we’re going to have to relocate the experiment to the great outdoors. After!” he added hastily as the class began gathering its collective supplies. “After our lab, everyone. Sit back down.”

Most classes would have complained about delaying the excitement, but Joly’s class was not “most classes”. Incidents like the annihilation of the volleyball net and the roasting of javert’s car had made him something of a school-wide legend, and this legendary status commanded a certain degree of respect from his students. “Before we begin, does anyone know what we’ll be covering in this unit?” A few hands went up hesitantly.

“Umm… the pH scale?” offered a girl in the back of the room.

“Exactly,” Joly said, grin widening a bit _too_ much. “Who can tell me what the pH scale measures?”

A few more hands went up. “Acids?” another student said.

“Yes, acids. And what else?” Joly asked, writing the word on the board in his bizarrely loopy handwriting. “Anyone?”

“Base?”

Joly added the new word to the opposite side of the board. “Does anyone know the other term we can use for base? It’s in your book,” he added, and there was a sudden ecstasy of flipping pages.

“Akaline!” several voices called out.

Joly nodded, adding ‘akaline’ in parenthesis below ‘base’. “So, on one side, we have alkaline, and all the way on the other side, we have acid. The basic scale is numbered from zero to fourteen…”He drew a line connecting the two terms and scribbled numbers along it, starting with 14 by alkaline until he reached zero. “Right here in the middle, seven, is neutral. And I’m sure you all know what that would be.” A chorus of ‘Water!’ rang out before he could even finish his question. “Perfect!” he exclaimed, adding the final term to the board. “Okay, now that we’ve got the basics down, let’s do something fun!”

There was an echo of squeaks and scuffling as the students scooted their chairs closer to the fume hood where Joly had begun to set up his supplies. “Before we do this,” he began, “I want you all to recite the Sacred Chemistry 101 Oath.” There were a few snickers as the students automatically raised their right hands.

“I solemnly swear to never, ever try this experiment at home,” they chorused. “I solemnly swear to never, ever try this at someone else’s home. I solemnly swear to never, ever encourage anyone else to try this.”

“And if you do?” Joly prompted.

“…Professor Joly will find us and feed us to the geese,” came the reply.

Joly grinned like a lunatic. “You’re damn right I will,” he said. “Alright, let’s do this thing.” He set two containers on the table, both of which were noticeably unmarked. “What I have here is hydrochloric acid, which measures as zero on the pH scale, and sodium hydroxide, which measures as a fourteen. How can we tell which is which?”

“That paper you dip in!” one of the students exclaimed. “The one that changes color!”

“That’s right. Now, let’s see what we have here….” He placed a drop on one of the testing strips, which immediately turned a bright red. “Looks like this one is the hydrochloric acid. Who wants to see what it can do?” There was an eager murmur from the students as Joly dramatically put on his goggles and a very thick pair of gloves. “Alright. So here,” he poured a small amount of the acid into a bowl, “we have our acid. And here,” he held up a key, “we have Principal Javert’s car key.” There was a loud whoop of laughter from the class. “Let’s see what happens.” Using a large pair of tongs, he dropped the key into the acid, where it immediately began to bubble. After a few minutes, he pulled the now considerably deformed key back out. “As you can see, this is a very dangerous substance,” he explained. “Next, we’re going to have a look at the power of sodium hydroxide.” He pulled out a large padlock. “This is the lock Principal Javert put on the supply closet,” he explained. “Unfortunately, he seems to have forgotten to give me a key. So we’ll have to open it another way, won’t we class?”

There was a chorus of laughter, and Joly tipped a small amount of the sodium hydroxide into a small plastic bowl. “I’m going to need you guys to stay back for this one, okay?” he said. “This is where things get a bit dangerous.” As the class stepped back, he gently placed the lock in the bowl, then quickly stepped back to close the fume hood as the bowl began to steam. “One of the byproducts of this chemical reaction is hydrogen gas, which is very flammable. And when I said I was going to set the classroom on fire, this isn’t the way I’d planned it.

“So, while we wait,” he continued, pulling his gloves off as he returned to the whiteboard. “can anyone guess the chemical composition of hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide?” He wrote both terms on the board, and when the first student raised her hand, he offered her the marker.

“Um… well, there’s sodium here, so that’s Na, right?” she asked. Joly nodded, and she quickly wrote the letters on the board. “And hydrogen? So, H?”

“You’re still missing something,” Joly said. “What’s the last part of the word?”

“Oh! Right. Oxide. Oxygen, so O. NaHO?”

“Remember what we just covered? Electronegativity?”

“NaOH, sorry,” she said.

“No, you’ve got it. Anyone wanna try the next one?” Joly offered, and this time, several more hands went up. “Here, catch!” He tossed the marked, and one of the boys in the back quickly emerged, victorious.

“So… hydrochloric acid?” the boy repeated. “Hydrogen and… chlorine? HCl?”

“Wonderful!” said Joly. “Oh, and it looks like we can break open the lock now.” The bowl was still steaming, and Joly pulled his gloves back on before pulling the fume hood open again. “And would you look at this?” He lifted the lock out of the bowl, and angled it for the class to see. “You can see where it ate right through the metal. There’s the pin in there, too, so I think we’ve learned a valuable lesson on our principal’s behalf.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at the lock. “Don’t fuck with a Chemistry teacher.”

He dropped the lock into a beaker of water and closed the hood. “Alright, so I’m assuming we’re all clear on exactly how dangerous these chemicals are, right?”

“Right,” came the chorused reply.

“And we’ve all agreed not to try this ourselves, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, then, let’s mix them!” There was a cheer from the students as they pushed closer to the lab table. With the air of a magician, and after pausing to let the suspense build, Joly poured the sodium hydroxide into the hydrochloric acid.

Whatever the students had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t this. The was a slight hiss and a bit of bubbling, but all in all, it failed to live up to the excitement of the last two experiments. “Is that it?”

“Aw, was that disappointing?” Joly asked, voice laced with mock sympathy. Several students nodded. “Alright, then, how’s this?” In one swift motion, he picked up the glass, brought it to his lips and, amidst the gasps of surprise, downed the contents.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit!”_

“Man, what you _doin?”_

“What the hell?!”

The panic continued until they finally realized their teacher was not doubled over in pain (as they had initially assumed) but in the throes of laughter, complete with tears streaming down his face as he collapsed into his chair, still positively howling. “You should see your faces!” he spluttered.

“Not funny, teach!”

“That’s just mean!”

“You are one _sick_ son of a bitch.”

Once Joly had caught his breath, he pointed at the board. “Look closely at the compounds,” he wheezed. “Any guesses on how I was able to drink that without dissolving?” There was a brief murmur, pierced intermittently by Joly’s giggles, as the class stared at the whiteboard. “I’ll give you a hint: What’s between zero and fourteen on the pH scale?”

“H2O!” came a sudden enthused reply. “And… and… that leaves NaCl? So… salt water?”

“Now, remember your promises,” Joly said hastily. “When I give you guys some of this stuff to mess around with, it’s going to be super diluted, so you’re not gonna get the same results if you mix it. Remember the Golden Rule of Chemistry?”

“None of this stuff goes in our mouths.”

“Words of wisdom that will resound throughout the ages," Musichetta commented from the doorway. Joly’s face immediately turned pink. “I’m thinking about making that a rule in my cooking classes,” she added. “I’ve had four people out with food poisoning already.”

“Not your fault they didn’t cook the meat all the way through,” Joly said lightly. “Did you need something, ‘Chetta?”

“Bahorel sent me,” she replied with a shrug. “Said something about celebrating some exceptional test grades by lighting the tennis court on fire.” The entire classroom erupted in applause, and Musichetta grinned playfully. “Oh, was it _this_ class?” she exclaimed in mock astonishment. “Well, you’d all better hurry before you miss it!”

In all his years of being dragged to various sporting events, Joly had yet to see any athlete move at the speed his class raced out of the room. The last foot had barely disappeared through the doorway when Joly grabbed Musichetta and pulled her into a hug. “Missed you,” he whispered into the waves of her hair.

“I was watching that little stunt you pulled,” she replied before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re really wonderful with them, you know?”

The blush returned to Joly’s face. “I try.”

“Although…” Musichetta’s voice had taken on a much more playful note. “What was that rule about putting things in my mouth?”

Joly laughed, pulling her into a deep kiss. “Absolutely not,” he said after a minute. “Unless you’re the teacher.”

“I _am_ a teacher.”

“Ask me again when we get home.” He pressed a second kiss to her lips. “Come on, we’d better get out there before Bahorel kills everyone.”


	5. Accounting

Cosette had been blessed with a relatively mellow class. Which was no small mercy, seeing how she was usually stuck with a bunch of Seniors who were only taking the class for the credit and couldn’t care less about the subject. And there were several Juniors the previous year who would give her dirty looks and mutter something about _Éponine_ of all people. Goodness only knows what _that_ was all about.

But this semester saw her with a group of students who at least showed a _mild_ curiosity about Accounting, which was good for them, since it was (in her opinion) one of the few subjects they were actually guaranteed to use in the real world. She wasn’t one to talk shit about other classes, but the chances of anyone actually needing to know a single thing about trigonometry or a color wheel or marine biology were pretty slim. Especially marine biology. They didn’t even live near an ocean, for crap’s sake!

“I hope you’ve all made progress on your transaction journals,” she said as she collected the previous week’s homework. “They’re due on the first of next month, and you’ll need them for the next project.”

There was minimal grumbling, but Cosette couldn’t exactly blame them. Balancing a checkbook might be necessary, but that didn’t exactly make it fun. She liked to think that her idea of incorporating some real-life situations into the assignment made it infinitely more entertaining that her frightfully dull predecessor, however, and with that thought, she simply grinned at the protests. “I know, I know,” she said soothingly. “It’s not fun, and it’s never going to _be_ fun. But think how much more fun you’ll all have when you go out and don’t have to worry about finances. _Much_ less stress, and I know you all will learn to appreciate—”

The words died in her mouth as the classroom door opened again. She’d half-expected to see one of her students ambling in late, but much to her surprise, that wasn’t the case. “Marius!” she exclaimed, sounding slightly more breathless than she’d intended. “What brings you to my corner of the building?”

“Miss Fauchelevent,” he said, likely for formality’s sake in front of her class. “Can I talk with you outside for a moment?”

“Oh! Yes, I suppose,” she said with a soft smile. “Everyone, I’ll be right back. Go ahead and work on your calculations while I’m gone. And don’t destroy the classroom or anything,” she added with a stern glance at the group of boys in the back corner.

If the students were grinning, she assumed it was from her comment. What else could it be?

“Is everything okay, Marius?” she asked as soon as the door closed behind her.

“What? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine,” he replied, face reddening slightly. “Actually, I needed your help with something.”

Cosette nodded. “Anything.”

Emboldened by her enthusiasm, Marius felt himself relax. “Well, see, Courfeyrac and I—”

“Do you two need an alibi again?” she interrupted.

Marius had the audacity to look confused. “No, of course not.”

“Lawyer?”

“No.”

“If you got on Éponine’s bad side again, I can’t help you.”

Marius shook his head. “Not me. Just Courfeyrac, and going by the state of his car, I think she already got him back for it.”

“Then what’s up?”

Marius decided to choose his words carefully. “You know how Enjolras and Grantaire have been—”

“—adorably crushing on each other since they were in high school, yes,” she finished. “I went to the same school as them, remember?”

“Of course,” Marius said with a grin. “How could I forget? Well, it turns out we aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed.”

Cosette giggled. “Of course we aren’t,” she replied. “Jehan’s been writing poetry about them for years, and there’s a reason Bossuet keeps “tripping” and knocking them into each other.”

“I didn’t mean us,” Marius clarified, trying not to smirk at the mental image of Bossuet knocking Enjolras face-first into Grantaire’s lap. “Turns out a lot of the students are making bets.”

“No _way!”_ Cosette squealed. “So what do you need me to do?”

Marius _did_ smirk this time. “Well, Courfeyrac was… shall we say, inspired? He had the great idea that we should have a competition to see who can finally get them to hook up.”

“But we’ve been trying that for _years,”_ Cosette said with a slight frown. “They’re so deep in denial that they might as well be in Egypt.”

“See, that’s the thing, though,” Marius said, eyes lighting up a bit. “The reason it hasn’t worked is because it’s coming from us. They’re too used to us suggesting they get together, and whenever Bahorel says they should just fuck already, they just think he’s messing around. And Jehan sees love in a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. They’re not really going to take him seriously.”

Marius’ smirk was taking on a bit of Éponine-ish mischief. “We’re getting the students involved. Bossuet already bribed Enjolras’ class to paint cartoons on the whiteboard.”

“How does that help set them up?”

“I don’t really know. It was Bossuet’s idea, and he’s not exactly matchmaker material.” Marius shrugged. “But Feuilly and Bahorel got their classes to start switching out staplers and chairs and stuff, so they _have_ to go to each other’s classes to get their stuff back.”

“And they don’t suspect anything?” Cosette whispered, eyes wide.

“Grantaire does, I think. Enjolras assumed he was the one who painted the whiteboard, and since he obviously didn’t, he thinks it was one of us.” Cosette nodded, clearly considering this new information. “He has no idea that we’ve got the students in on it, though. Probably just thinks we’re up to our usual shenanigans.”

Cosette glanced over her shoulder at the door. “I’ve got a few students who’re taking interior design classes,” she said musingly. “I could get them to create a… _romantic_ atmosphere in the teacher’s lounge.”

“That’s brilliant!” Marius exclaimed. “And Halloween’s coming up too, so Courfeyrac’s convinced a bunch of students to dress like Cupid and follow the two of them around everywhere.”

“This is so perfect!” Cosette squealed, clapping her hands excitedly. “Though it _is_ a little bit unnerving. I mean, there’s no way this is the first time Courfeyrac’s tried a stunt like this. You think he’s gonna try it on anyone else?”

Marius’ blush returned, and he glanced at the wall. “Like who?” he asked in what he hoped was an offhanded, casual tone. Unfortunately, his voice cracked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cosette said with a small grin. “It’s just, my students have been positively _gushing_ about how French is the language of love. I wonder if they’re trying to tell me something.”

Marius choked slightly on the air. “Well, I, uh, it _is_ considered a Romance language, but so are Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. And, uh, Latin. Romanian too! All very, uh, romantic.” He realized he was rambling, and mentally kicked himself. “Uh, speaking of French, I, uh, have a lot of quizzes to grade. And uh, plotting to do.”

Cosette giggled again. “And I should get back to teaching before they break a window and escape,” she said. _“Au revoir, Monsieur Marius.”_

If he was ever asked to recall the event, Marius decided to leave out the part where he walked into the lockers as he left, and Cosette’s ensuing laughter as she returned to her classroom.

“Have you all made some progress?” she asked as she picked up the dry-erase marker from her desk.

“Yes, Mrs. Pontmercy,” the class chorused, and Cosette’s felt her face immediately turn scarlet. Out the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of _some_ one with dark, curly hair ducking out of sight outside the windows.

She shook her head. Part of her wanted to give Courfeyrac a hug, but in the end, she decided rigging his classroom with silly string to be far more appropriate.


End file.
